Hello, Fred
by It's Molly
Summary: molly is alone. in her empty house, she talks to her dead son about her life. oneshot. r&r.


_A/N: I got random Older!Molly inspiration. I'm sorry if Fred is actually named after some uncle or something; I just wanted to write this, regardless. I'm also sorry if I got any other facts wrong – I don't remember all the details of Molly's family. Oh, and I think that this may be horribly inconsistent... all the same, please R&R!_

Hello, Fred.

Your father never wanted to name you Fred, you know. He told me that a few years ago. He'd said, to begin with, that Frederick was nice, and I'd assumed that that included the nicknames which came from it. Apparently not. And it's always shortened, isn't it? ...It surprises me, even now. The thought that he can have kept something like that from me. But I think that he took that, not liking your name, as a bad omen: half-worried that he wouldn't like you, either. Men are stupid like that. George, though. He liked George. He said once that it was a comedian sort of name – George would have a good sense of humour, he told me once. Well. He was right, wasn't he? He imagined you all wrong, though. Fred. Sensible, right? I think he thought of you as a party-pooper. But he tried to ignore the bad feeling. You aren't supposed to get that, you see. Misgivings about your own child. At least: he didn't think that you were. And men don't like to admit things like that. It's one of the things which is so silly about them. They don't confide in anyone... You were quite open with me, mind. But... I wish you had talked to me whenever you'd had the chance. I wish that I'd had more. I wish that I could have more now, actually. I guess that it's greedy of me, craving your company as soon as I can't have it any more – of course, I loved it when I could. I don't mean that I neglected you before; you know that I didn't. I _could_ have spent more time with you. But that would have meant abandoning the others, wouldn't it? That's the thing: now, you've become a priority. Isn't that silly? If I could go back a few years, I would want to do things just the two of us, even though that would shut everyone else out... because now I have all the time in the world with the others, but _none_ with you. It's one of the things which you can't account for when you're figuring out how you're going to do motherhood; I mean, if I'd known... But I don't like to dwell on things. I did that when my brothers died. Kept going over things. And it didn't help. So I don't think about 'what if's this time. Well, that isn't true, but I try not to. Whenever I catch myself, I stop. And if I really feel as if I need to think about them – like now – I come and talk to you.

Do you know, I never know how to refer to Arthur around you now? I want to, for normality's sake, say 'your father' - but normality's impossible, and, anyway, I keep wanting to just say 'Arthur'. It isn't as if it matters, but it's trifles like this which I always get obsessed over. But Arthur – your father... I think that he became a lot happier about the name when he learnt that it would be one of two. You see, we didn't know that I was having twins. We did assume that you would be a boy. Well. I'm sure we can't have, really, but... looking back, it seems obvious. I suppose that we did think of girls' names as well. But I remember it as a choice between Fred and George: if there had been only one son, he would undoubtedly have been named Fred. (I do tend to win in arguments against your father, don't I?) And I have to say that, even though everyone else seems to consider you-and-George as an inseparable double act, I've always thought of you as entirely different people. I suppose that mothers always do. It's you that I imagine when I think of that single son (surely, it was a son!) which we imagined. That's just how I think of it; I'm not saying that you're more important, exactly, or that I would rather have had just you and forgot George altogether. I don't think that it would be possible for me to say that, especially now. Have I told you about how useful George has been? I always expected, when I imagined my children growing up and leaving, that Ginny would be the one to stay and help me. Well – I was wrong. Ginny is _far_ too wrapped up in Harry Potter for that kind of thing; which, I guess, isn't altogether bad. George tells me that she is trying to get pregnant again, and, however much I dislike only finding out these things through him... well, another grandchild. I can't help loving the promise of that.

Have I already told you about the ones there are? I forget what I've said and not said to you, these days. Victoire. Have I told you about Victoire? ...She is one of the best things about my life. I adore her. Fleur is kind to me – recognises how lonely I am, I suppose – and often brings her over. Well, I never thought that such a beautiful girl could come from my blood. I swear that she'll break all the hearts in Hogwarts, when she gets old enough to go; she is eight, at the moment, you know, and at that age where one's self is the most important thing in the entire world. I guess that she does put it on a _bit_. Well, more than a bit. But I don't mind. I'm perfectly happy to flatter her and adore her while she dances around and acts more adorable than she really needs to and has tantrums at the least disappointment. If the girl turns out a complete brat, then I expect it'll be my fault. But it's hard to worry about those things now. Do you know about the time when she came over and I was sick? She was lovely, Fred. Lovely. Sat by me all afternoon, and even made me some lemon-tea when I said that I liked it. (I think that she must have spilled half of the cup before she got to my bed; I had to clean thoroughly afterwards.) I don't remember all of you doing anything like that: then again, none of you were as romantic as she is. She likes the _idea_ of things like that, you see. Helping an invalid. Cleaning around the house. You know the sort. She can get away with it, though, because she's so pretty. I suppose that's an awful thing to think – that appearance can make up for personality flaws – but it's true. I doubt very much that her idealism will cause her problems in life. On the contrary, I'd guess that it will draw people to her... do you know, I used to wish that _I_ was beautiful enough for that kind of thing. The teenage me would be very much jealous of how Victoire will undoubtedly become, but... thankfully, the two will never meet.

I'm sorry. I keep jumping around in the years, don't I? It's rather hard not to. Since I'm talking to you, I suppose that I should be talking about things to do with you – so, anyway, your father was pleased when we found out that it was twins. Well, I'm not sure that 'pleased' is the right word; I remember him staring at the doctor, completely shocked, when she told us. I was doing my fair share of staring myself. We hadn't expected it, you see, in the same way that we hadn't expected a girl. (Of course, you were both boys. _That_ made sense.) And it took a while to imagine Funny George and Sensible Fred (we never quite shook off the original predictions) as twins. I can't remember exactly when it was that we got over it; it's hard to pinpoint these things. But by the eighth month of my pregnancy, I remember that Arthur was talking cheerfully about it – two babies for the birth of one, he said, and I glared at him and reminded him that, actually, I still had to squeeze two out. (I was in that 'moody cow' phase of my pregnancy, and I was determined to make the worst of everything.) But the idea of twins thrilled even me. I think that what I liked about it most was the idea that you'd never be alone. My brothers were twins, and I've been led to believe that it kept them from ever feeling lonely. Or perhaps they just refused to admit to it – they were awful liars, the pair of them. But, whatever the reason, I was pleased that you were a twin. It was a major drain on our money, though: buying things for both of you. Financially speaking, I don't think that we ever quite recovered from it.

Do you remember that 'matching outfits' phase? That's one of the things which I remember best. Me saying that I'd never be so awful as to make you wear the same clothes at the same time, and your response being to both go out and buy a dozen identical outfits... which you proceeded to wear over the coming weeks. It drove me mad. Arthur found it hilarious, though. Said it was just a sign of typical childhood defiance, or something – I never paid that much attention when Arthur tried to advise me on mothering. It's not that I thought of him as a bad parent; we simply had a different approach. It's no good to try seizing someone else's strategies, if they just aren't the kind which you can pull off: imagine me, for instance, trying to do that loop-the-loop broomstick trick which Ron is so keen on. Ron has become a complete Quidditch fanatic, by the way. I mean, he always _liked_ Quidditch, but now he's obsessed. He's still no good at it, as far as I can tell, but he goes to all the games and buys all the posters. I don't know how Hermione can put up with it. I suppose that he has, for the most part, matured; but why the Quidditch interest should be the thing to stay, I don't know. Of course – I'm likely to be influenced by my own lack of fascination in the sport. Watching it, especially, but I've never been good at playing either. I always used to love flying, but I have butterfingers and a tendency to fall off my broom if I try to go too fast. Arthur was never very good, either, although he used to lie and claim that he'd been excellent... I think that he actually convinced himself that he was. How typical of him.

Ron maintains, you know, that you would share his Quidditch obsession. I don't remember you ever even mentioning it, personally, but he insists that you were an avid fan. I suppose that we've all tweaked you a little over the years, just to fit our picture better. I've wanted for years to all sit down together and discuss all of our memories, but everyone's always busy. Apart from me. Well, I have nothing to be busy with, do I? I clean the house. I go for walks. Victoire comes on Wednesday evenings, and sometimes on Saturdays, too. The rest of my children appear erratically: apart from George, who drops in every day and talks to me. He usually asks something along the lines of 'what sort of day have you had?', and I, to disguise having done nothing, pick on some little detail about the day and enlarge it so that it seems suitably important. For instance, the condition of a post owl when it arrived at my window – and, at last, I understand why it is that old ladies complain so very much. It isn't, I expect, because they are disenchanted with the world, but simply as a way of filling in time. It's so much easier to make up complaints than it is to make up anything else, and it doesn't feel so much like a lie. I suppose that George must think of me as constantly grumpy, but I can't help it. Sometimes we talk about the past, and I'm fine then. We don't talk about you as often as I'd like, but we do occasionally. I like that best of all: partly because it's nice to have proof that someone misses you as much as I do, and partly because it's something which I can talk a lot about. Well. I don't really need to tell you _that_, do I?

You know... I've never considered myself to be the 'emotional' kind of woman. I don't think that I cried more than once after my brothers died. Isn't that awful? But... oh, Fred. Your funeral tore me apart. It was George's idea: he grabbed the things from the shop and brought them, but then... well, it was everyone else who took them. Daft hats. Fake wands. Percy ate one of your sweets and was there with a permanently bleeding nose. He seemed to think of as some kind of tribute; he didn't clean up the blood until the very end. I remember getting up to make the speech, because I was expected to, and seeing the sea of your stupid, stupid joke products. It made me laugh, but then I started to cry. Can you imagine that? Just standing up there, looking out and everyone and crying. I must have seemed so ridiculous. I ended up not saying a proper speech. I wish that I could have come up with something real, something moving. But I just cried and said that I'd loved you, and then I got off the stage. George came on, then, instead... and he was brilliant. I think that it was better for him to talk. I can't remember why we didn't want him to – maybe we thought that he was too young. But it was lovely, his speech. Lovely and horrible. I was clinging to Arthur as he said all about you and how wonderful you'd been, and that helped. I wish... I wish that I could still do that.

Once, when you were about four years old, I remember Arthur turning to me in the garden and saying, "You know, I think that Fred's the right name."

And I remember being confused, because... well, hadn't he known that all along?


End file.
